


Douleur

by ryttu3k



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Reminiscing, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eventually, Sycamore has to say goodbye. He just wishes they weren't leaving so much unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Douleur

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this submission](http://imaginesycamore.tumblr.com/post/87224221827/imagine-professor-sycamore-begging-the-protagonist-to) to the Imagine Sycamore blog on Tumblr. A great deal of the elements here were also taken from Imagine Sycamore and also Imagine Lysandre - almost all are my own, with the exceptions of the inspiration submission, [this submission](http://imaginelysandre.tumblr.com/post/84319460158/imagine-lysandres-last-words-being-in-a) (although I rephrased it slightly), and [this submission](http://imaginesycamore.tumblr.com/post/84462596457/imagine-sycamore-replaying-some-of-lysandres-holo).

"This Friday. What are you doing?"

The trainer stops short, hand halting in its movement to clip the Pokeball containing her Roserade back on her belt, curiosity in her dark eyes. The question has caught her by surprise, and probably with good reason.

"Um," she starts carefully, "I'm not sure, yet. I'm booked in to challenge Snowbelle Gym on Thursday, so I guess... either training for a rematch if I lose, or training for Victory Road if I don't?" She hesitates for just a moment, then presses on - "Why do you ask, Professor?"

The ground seems terribly interesting at the moment, and it takes him a moment to find his voice again, clinging to his Blastoise' Pokeball for security. "It's the funeral on Friday," he says quietly. "I would very much appreciate it if you were there."

She's silent, and he lifts his head to see raw shock written on her face. "Me?" she says uncertainly, "Why - but Professor, I - I mean, I was the one who -"

 _Killed Lysandre._ He knows the thought has flitted through her head, knows because it's a constant presence in his own, and he shakes his head both in denial and to force the words away. "You were the one who saved him," he says, repeating his earlier words, "As well as, well, the entire world. And I know you despised him, Serena, but..."

_But I can't do this alone._

"But... it would mean the world to me... _please_..."

It's going to be hard enough doing this. It'd be worse still to do this on his own. He knows that Diantha will be there to support him, he hopes that Sina and Dexio will be as well... but all too easily, he can picture himself standing at the cemetery, and standing there alone.

'Alone', he has discovered, is not a good way to feel at all.

"Okay," she says softly, and he lifts his head in some surprise. She's smiling tentatively, sympathetically. "It's not because of him, okay? I know you were friends, but..." And she shrugs. "But I'll go to support you. Who else is coming?"

He nods in acknowledgement, quietly relieved. "Diantha. Sina and Dexio, hopefully. I'm going to ask the others as well. A few of his former co-workers, before... before Flare. And - his mother."

Her face clouds a little. He can't bring herself to blame him in the slightest.

"Friday," she repeats, "Okay. Send me the details over the - send me the details."

He nods, he tells her of secret treasures hidden in the town, and they part ways, one task complete but the larger one still to come.

 

On Thursday, he finds himself in Geosenge, legs dangling into the crater, staring blankly at the half-cleared rubble.

One hand is clenched tightly around the ring on the chain around his neck, and he rehearses the words to say to stop Lysandre's plans, to bring him back, to stop him from making a fatal mistake, to save him; the words he will now never get to say.

 

In the years to come, he will have little memory of the service itself.

Lysandre was not part of any organised religion, choosing his own gods to chase, but his mother is, and the droning words of the sermon provide a neutral background to his misery. It would almost be better if there was a body, he decides blankly as he stares ahead at the bare altar, to be able to say goodbye to his face, to be left with something other than a scratched ring, some scraps of scorched cloth, a Holo Caster message, crackly with electrical interference and almost drowned out by the scream of mechanics and a tremor in Lysandre's otherwise calm, sad voice, replayed over and over again.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

He had torn up the drawings he had done, calm, quiet moments captured in pencil on paper, the pieces viciously crumbled and ripped and then suddenly, sorely missed. The framed photo on his desk had been slammed face down, the glass cracking down the middle, separating the two men in the image with their faces lit up in incandescent happiness. He had deleted the emails, one by one - articles of interest, arrangements to meet for dinner, greetings throughout the day.

And he had been left with a scratched ring, and the Holo Caster messages that he could not stop himself from replaying, yearning to see his face, to hear his voice, fighting back the hurt just to see these last moments over and over and over.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

There's nothing left to bury, but they still venture outside to say a few words at the hastily-erected marker, flowers in his hands. And it isn't right, it isn't fair that there should be so little left. Lysandre got to say his goodbyes - now he'll be saying his own to nothing, numbers and letters, an empty grave with nothing to connect it to what was once a living, thinking, breathing human being.

Serena has ended up walking at his side, glancing up at him in concern, her expression subdued. "Professor?" she asks softly, and he makes a wordless little sound of acknowledgement. "Can I ask you something?"

He nods once, hands tight around the stems.

"The ring," she says softly, and he glances down to where it rests on its chain against his chest, the blues and greens and violets surrounded by its silver casing. "That was - it was his, wasn't it?"

Again, he nods. "It was mine at first," he manages to say, and his voice is at least holding steady. "I spent a little while studying at the Tower of Mastery... I never did manage to achieve Mega evolution, but they gave me a stone anyway for my studies. I gave it to him about a year ago."

Neither of them have said his name since it happened. He's not sure he ever could, without the word turning to ashes in his mouth.

"How come?" she asks, her voice small.

"I thought he would be able to make better use of it. He had started with a Magikarp when he was younger, and Gyaradosite exists... I wanted to show him that I had faith in his abilities."

She nods, gaze downwards. "He was able to use it at the end," she says softly.

"I know. Shauna told me." He exhales unsteadily, shifting the flowers so he's holding them with one arm, raising the other to brush his fingers against the metal. "I'm glad that - someone was able to use it as it was intended. If nothing else, at least he was able to experience that."

She manages a sad smile, and her fingers brush the bracelet around her left wrist, too. "It's an incredible feeling," she agrees, "It feels like Luc and I can almost read each other's minds..." Her voice fades out. "They, um, gave it back to you?"

He nods, not quite able to answer verbally, a knot in his throat as he recalls one of the salvage team dropping the ring in his palm, unable to understand what it had meant. ("Here, Prof, we found this. You study 'em, don't you?")

They lapse into silence, his head bowed, hers raised and eyes focused. At one point, he catches a glimpse of her raising a hand in greeting, and he follows her gaze to see AZ, the giant immortal keeping his distance but still there, respectfully quiet.

He would be Lysandre's many-times great-uncle, wouldn't he? How many family members has he outlived? How many times has he stood at the edges of the cemetery, watching his family die one by one?

It starts snowing, and he can't bring himself to be surprised, snowflakes drifting and swirling through the air, lingering on the ground for just seconds before dissolving into water.

The last words are said quickly, like this is an unpleasant business to be dealt with in a hurry and then set aside, a funeral for a would-be mass murderer and those who found themselves drawn near by circumstance and fate. He suspects that of those gathered there, only he and Lysandre's mother will genuinely mourn.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

She does not raise her eyes from the ground, gazing at the little marker that is the final designation of her son, and he's glad. Her hair is dark and the veil covering it darker, but Lysandre's eyes came from her.

She is the first to leave, pausing only to drop her bouquet of cornflowers in front of the marker and then rest a hand on his shoulder, her face drawn as she murmurs a promise to offer him help any time he needs it. Lysandre's former co-workers are next, silent and expressions uncomfortable, like they have seen a distasteful thing and are glad to be free of it. Even AZ is gone, or at least gone from his sight. Diantha moves to his side, raises a cautious hand to his arm.

"Go back inside," he says distantly, "I'll be in soon."

She does, glancing back uncertainly as she ushers Sina and Dexio and the children away, and he is left alone.

"I went back to Geosenge," he says to the marker as he lays the fire lilies beside the cornflowers, his fingers stiff and numb from clinging to the flowers in the frigid air. "And sat at the edge of the crater. I just kept staring down at it, you know - I tried to work out what I could have said to stop this..."

And then his legs no longer hold him up and he crumples to his knees, fingers pressed into the cold soil, digging in as if it can keep him grounded, keep him present, as if the chill against his fingertips can freeze the heat building behind his eyes and stop the carefully developed mask from cracking asunder...

But there are so many memories, so many moments that he can no longer keep buried - not now, not at this final farewell, no longer to be denied and blocked up. He doesn't want to remember, but he can't make himself forget, and so - just this once - he lets them come.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

Their first meeting, Lysandre an ambitious graduate student, crackling with passion and ideas, the cornflower blue of his eyes drawing him nearer like a magnet.

Lunch dates, although they are not yet dates, as they work on a tricky aspect of his doctorate; exchanges of ideas and theories and views, falling in love with his brilliant mind.

Warm, bitten lips against his, the taste of wine and cigarettes overriding the chill of an evening in not-quite-spring.

A self-made disaster in the kitchen, Lysandre's laughter as he helps him correct the cake he was attempting to make, his words mostly sarcastic but his guidance gentle.

Wrapped in a blanket together on the floor (since Lysandre's Pyroar has unceremoniously stolen the sofa), scoffing popcorn and trying not to grin as Lysandre drops the serious mask and sings along to _I Just Can't Wait To Be King_.

The grave seriousness in Lysandre's eyes as he tells him to climb up on to his back, he's not walking back to the laboratories with a sprained ankle, and no, he is not going to be allowed on skates ever again.

Dinner out with friends, the two of them trying to work out just how much they can flirt without anyone noticing (not very much, apparently, according to an amused and mildly exasperated Diantha).

Stopping by the cafe after an incredibly long morning, hands cupped around a perfect cup of coffee and feeling himself revitalised from the inside out, Lysandre's hand outstretched and a faint smile on his face as he offers a few macarons 'courtesy of the chef'.

Lysandre waiting for him at the airport after he returns from overseas (with three starters from Kanto in their Pokeballs on his belt), relief written plainly on his face.

Lysandre slyly promising things to come over private Holo Caster messages, leaving him flustered and rather unable to concentrate for the rest of the day.

Lysandre pretending not to notice the scratching of his pencil as he tries to immortalise the sleepy, satisfied expression on his face, lounging in his bed with the sheets rumpled beneath him.

Lysandre squirming under his hands as he traces patterns between his freckles, laughingly protesting - who knew that he was ticklish?

Lysandre, always there, a warm presence to curl up to at night, the quiet sound of his breathing the only thing he needs to sleep peacefully.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

And yet he also can't forget, can't _let_ himself forget, the anguish on Lysandre's face as he reads about deforestation or drought through water mismanagement or land degradation or poverty or war or pollution, he can't let himself forget the fury in his voice as he declares those who abuse the planet to be filth, he can't let himself forget his own terror as he realises that something, at some point down the line, has gone desperately wrong.

He can't let himself forget his own inaction, his own fear, his own inactivity that led to his death, and he can never, ever forgive himself.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

"Lysandre -" he whispers, the first time he's said his name out loud since The Events, and as his voice cracks, so does his mask.

It's not even remotely dignified, sobbing in a graveyard on his knees in the dirt, hands limp at his sides, hair hanging before his eyes, chest aching beneath the crushing weight of guilt and grief, his hands cold, his eyes hot, his breath strangled in his throat, knowing that soon he must move on but every fibre of his existence desperate and yearning to see him again, to tell him what he needs to say the most.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

They don't leave him alone for too long. Trevor is the first to emerge, and then Diantha; Sina and Dexio sticking together like glue; Shauna with a few tissues in her outstretched hand, Tierno and Calem close behind; Serena lingering at the door, looking as lost as he feels.

"You'll get hypothermia at this rate," Diantha tells him gently, tugging him to his feet. "Come on - it's time to go."

And he allows himself to be led away, to dry his tears, to build the mask again, to set all of this - and he doesn't know if 'all of this' is the funeral or the past few days or his entire history with Lysandre - firmly in the past, and to move on with the future that Serena assured for them all when she claimed Xerneas and stopped Lysandre's plans once and for all.

And still, he asks himself what he could have done to stop it, to have a future with Lysandre at his side, happy and whole and content, not torn up by anger and fear.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Goodbye._

 

The door closes behind the little group, and silence once again reigns in the cemetery, the snow finally beginning to stick in cold white drifts.

From the furthest boundary, a man leaning up against a tree (almost indistinguishable from it in a rich brown coat and dyed brown hair) straightens up, absent-mindedly brushing snow off his shoulders and out of his hair where the flecks of red are still visible.

Cornflower blue eyes linger, for just a moment, on the door. And then he turns away and leaves the cemetery to the snow.


End file.
